


Project Seven Days

by Revenna



Series: R E L I G I O N [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, SMUTTY SMUT, Sherlock bein sherlock, Smut, haha nah super duper fluffy sex, hate sex?, heeeellllla gay, its sherlock he does that, john is pissed off because of this, kind of?, pretty obviously implied attempt at suicide, probably angst, psych manipulation, sherlock doesn't want to have feelings, yeah fair warning this is gonna be hella gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:40:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenna/pseuds/Revenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't usually spend this much time making any decision, but then again, this is not as simple as deciding what somebody wants from you, or what they've done or what they plan on doing. John Watson presented a challenge that would need both bravery and wit to crack, and Sherlock was never one for emotions.<br/>(Hopefully best in my collection.)</p><p>Can be read independently of its series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Days

"John," Sherlock murmured, stroking three fingers along his flatmate's jaw, just barely touching the skin as he lifted John's gaze to his so Sherlock could watch his cheeks redden, just a little bit. Those big, expressive silver eyes fluttered at him, startled, and John's pupils dilated more than he probably realized. Sherlock could feel beneath his fingertips as his doctor's pulse grew fast. The detective was sure that if he dared to move his fingers to John's lips, he could watch the hair on his arms erupt in goosebumps.  

"Ah- Yes? What are you... doing?" John asked, pulling Sherlock out of his trance. He had, of course, intended to get that reaction, but he suddenly whirled on his own logic. 

Was John ready to admit anything? Sherlock would hate to have to be the one to tell him about his own sexuality. Except no, he wouldn't. He smirked at himself, a little amused at the idea, but released his delicate hold of John's chin. No, John would not admit it. Not yet. 

But Sherlock wasn't known for his patience. 

"Looking at your face," he replied, purposefully tilting his head; he knew what his "best features" were, and the sun happened to be shining through the window at the right angle to highlight his cheekbones.

"Why?" John persisted. 

"I thought I saw something. Just my imagination."  Sherlock set his shoulders back naturally and turned around to go light a cigarette out of the window, leaving his flatemate to lick his teeth thoughtfully and look kind of insulted by his own behavior. Sherlock forced himself not to smile. 

Poor John thought himself so secretive about his emotions. In some ways, he was, especially compared to others, but he still couldn't hide anything from Sherlock. That was a fair trade in many ways. John knew so much more about Sherlock than he was ever meant to. Than anyone was ever meant to. And lo, behold, the result was a deeper relationship than Sherlock would have ever had with anyone else. 

He didn't even regret it. 

He struck his lighter and held the flame to the edge of his cigarette and leaned out of the window, squinting thoughtfully as John went about making afternoon tea. It came to him like the solution to a puzzle- slowly, but surely, and within a minute or so, he had formulated his plan. 

In seven days time, John Watson would be undeniably, undoubtedly, indisputably in love with him.


	2. Day One

Bottom.

John may be flexible in this field, but to put it brutally, he was a bottom. 

The way he shrank into himself told everything. If Sherlock lifted his chin a bit, John lowered his. If Sherlock got close enough, John sheepishly leaned back and forced the red away from his cheeks so he wouldn't obviously be blushing. If Sherlock held eye contact for one or three or five seconds longer than usual, John would look away, turning his cheek towards his shoulder. And if Sherlock hinted at a wolfish grin, he could watch John tense up and expose the side of his neck a little bit. 

And every time Sherlock turned around from these interactions, he couldn't help but smile. It was so easy to tap into it, but he wondered exactly how quickly John would learn to recognize his own reactions. Certainly by day seven. If not, Sherlock decided, there was no harm in forcing a reaction. Backing John up to the wall and pulling another nuclear move like he had yesterday. 

He would have to stop indulging that thought right here and right now, he realized as his head grew a little light on his shoulders, and John strutted out of the bedroom, dressed to the nines... in a t-shirt. John didn't usually wear t-shirts, lest the weather was hot, and it wasn't all that bad today. The look he wore told Sherlock that he still hadn't realized what his sub-conscience was telling him, but the sudden change in wardrobe proved it was working to some extent. 

This took a lot more willpower than he was used to exercising.

~

Was it just him, or did Sherlock seem particularly intriguing today?

John locked the door behind him and tucked the keys in his pocket before following his flatmate down the staircase and out to the street, where the taller man waved down a cab. John studied him, head cocked to the side and resting in his palm. Sherlock was keeping a secret from him. An especially good one, he decided, from the way Sherlock was acting. He was making an ass of himself flaunting in his own way that he knew something John didn't. 

It was infuriating.

They scooted into the back seat together, John not taking his eyes off of the other. Besides his pride, there was something else off about Sherlock in the way that he moved. It had come on in the past year or so, but it was especially bad today; how he held himself, how comfortable he seemed to be around John, and how cheery his attitude was when he came out of the room in the morning. 

It made a massive improvement on his sociability, and John found now found himself missing Sherlock when he wasn't around. How had Sherlock gone from just a rude soc iopath straight to surpassing all of John's known boundaries of friendship so abruptly? 

Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe he secretly loved the chaos. 

Out of nowhere, Sherlock turned to meet his stare. Oh, no. No. John wasn't going to break away this time. Whatever weird psychological game Sherlock was playing, John wasn't going to lose, whether he knew what the rules were or not. They held that gaze for almost ten seconds, Sherlock's smirk just growing softer the longer he looked at him, until John finally broke off, cursing himself mentally. His face turned red.

Was Sherlock making fun of him? Was that a condescending look or a just a genuine grin of contentedness? John was struck with the strong urge to... he didn't know. The strong urge to do something. 

They climbed out of the cab, John paying the driver as was ritual, and then he took up the lead, grabbing a basket for groceries. Obviously, Sherlock had other ideas, as he was struggling to pull a trolley out of the train. It came loose finally with one last tug, and Sherlock passed it to John with a cheeky smile. 

John took it begrudgingly and walked in through the automatic doors, heading immediately to the dairy section and grabbing a loaf or two of bread on his way as Sherlock departed to god-knows-where. They really only needed the essentials- bread, milk, eggs, that sort of thing. He waited at the front of the store for Sherlock to show up- he was a smart man, he could find him. Sure enough, there came those high cheekbones, marching down the aisle with six boxes of cereal and a box of John's favorite bagels.

You'd think someone like Sherlock would have very defined tastes in breakfast food, but no. He liked cereal. 

"Put one back," he said crossly, staring in disapproval at the cereal.

"You're not my mother, I don't have to listen to you."

"I'm gonna call her and tell her you said that," John teased, unable to resist a little smile. 

"Oh, she'll be so happy that her favorite son still respects her authority," Sherlock said, sniffing in laughter. 

"Are you the favorite now?"

"I always was," Sherlock replied confidently. 

John huffed in disagreement as the cashier scanned everything through, quirking an eyebrow at the two men, which John managed to ignore. They each brought two grocery bags outside and their way to the edge of the parking lot to sit and wait for another taxi. 

He looked over, determined now to win this weird staring contest that Sherlock had initiated so many times. His flatemate looked back, surprised at first, but it quickly melted into a look of confidence as he held John's stare. 

"What is this thing that you've been doing?" John asked abruptly, not taking his eyes away. "This staring thing? It's some kind of experiment, isn't it?"

"Of sorts," Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

John narrowed his eyes at him, and then an idea came to him. In mimic of what Sherlock had been doing, he smiled- just enough to call it a smile. 

Sherlock blinked at him. 

"And what are you doing?"

"Just playing along."

The exchange only lasted a few more seconds until Sherlock sheepishly broke away, suddenly looking unnerved. 

John expected to feel triumphant that he had won. 

But he only felt a little twinge of disappointment that he was no longer having his soul stared into by two intense, crystalline blue eyes. 

There was something about Sherlock that absolutely infatuated him, and he would find out what it was. 


	3. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, chapter starts out with smut.

Sherlock's fingers left trails of electricity on his abdomen as they glided down to his hips, soft kisses landing hungrily on his collar bone where Sherlock sucked gently. 

John gasped, feeling him self grow lightheaded as he tipped his chin up, lifting his hips as his eyelashes fluttered softly. His face was hot, and his member hard, but Sherlock wouldn't oblige. His own erection was baring blatantly against John's inner thigh as Sherlock worked his hands over his ass. 

"Sherlock...," John moaned. His fingers clawed at the sheets and his hips desperately shifted upwards, his erection demanding attention. 

Sherlock hushed him with a deep, soft sigh that John felt against his chest, sending shivers down his spine and chills throughout his loins. As if following his will, Sherlock shifted downwards, ever so-slowly, his hands now going towards John's breast as he moved his soft nibbles to the inner thigh. 

" _Say my name_ ," Sherlock whispered against his groin, and John gasped again. 

"S-Sherlock," he repeated, feeling hot to the touch, like the best fever he'd ever had. Sherlock's lips drew out against his skin to let his teeth a little nip, eliciting a short, quiet cry. 

" _Is that good?_ '" John heard him tease, and swallowed. If he tried to talk, it would come out as a whine, so he just nodded. He was beginning to get the hang of this- say his name, humor him, and he'll give you what you need. 

Sherlock's mouth grew dangerously close to John's cock. He could feel his breathe as he moved up the shaft towards the tip. John's legs spread out and he bit his lip, his blood pounding as he waited for Sherlock to take him. 

"Sherlock-!" he begged. 

" _What?!_ "

 

John's eyes snapped open to see the cream wallpaper of the bedroom, highlighted with golden sunlight from the window on Sherlock's side of the room. His erection was still pounding, and the blood roared in his ears. It took him only a second or so to register before his face lit with red. 

It was a dream.

"What?" He repeated back to Sherlock, who was sitting up in his bed looking confused and agitated. 

"Why were you saying my name?" Sherlock asked, squinting at him through newly-woken eyes. 

How much could John lie?

"I was having a dream," he said vaguely, eyes wide and unmoving like a deer caught in headlights.

"Was I there?"

"Clearly," John replied truthfully. 

Sherlock was quiet for a second before grunting, "Leave me out of your loud dreams," and throwing himself back into the ludicrous mountain of pillows. 

John stayed frozen. That was... weird, to say the least. He wasn't gay, right? He would know. There would have been a point in time that he would have looked at a man and realized, "I want to sleep with him." 

Like that dream. 

Appalled and dazed by himself, John rolled swiftly out of bed, squeamishly hiding himself against the mattress as he shuffled to the door and slipped out into the hallway, where he threw himself into the bathroom to stare into the mirror. 

A naked lady- that was appealing. 

A naked man-... okay, that was less appealing, but... there was still appeal there. 

Okay. That was good. John could accept a little bit of an attraction towards men. 

And then he thought of naked Sherlock, and his cheeks lit up like bonfires. 

Much more appealing than he would have hoped. 

Is that what had intrigued him about Sherlock these past few days?! Was this why he was so insistent on being around his flatemate? In hindsight, the relationship between him and Sherlock well surpassed that of a normal companionship. 

John shivered and flicked on the faucet to splash his face down with cold water.  _Think_ , He commanded himself, bracing against the sink. _You've had romantic feeling before, and you've had sex before. Are you really so inexperienced that you can't tell if you have feelings for him or not?_  

He took a deep breath, and then another, and then one more, and looked into the porcelain. Just for a second, he indulged himself, and considered what it would be like to have Sherlock's affections. 

His heart swelled at the thought, and his doubt vanished. He wasn't interested in Sherlock's love. He fucking craved it. 

John spent that morning in the bathroom, trying to absorb this new reality and sooth the sudden onset of honeymooner's syndrome. By the time he walked out of the bathroom, finally convinced he could look at Sherlock without turning crimson, it was nearly eleven, and the tall bastard was sitting on the couch, watching trash television. 

"Busy morning?" he asked without looking up. 

John stopped for half a heartbeat before he realized what he was talking about, and sighed inwardly in relief. 

He could get through today. There was no way Sherlock knew what he had been dreaming about. 


	4. Day Three

Sherlock knew  _exactly_ what John had been dreaming about. 

It gave him chills to think about- his methods were more effective than he could have dreamed. He resisted a smile as John slipped out of the bathroom, and his heart pounded. 

No, bad. Too much dopamine there, and  _way_ too much oxytocin. He scorned himself into relaxation, but it was immediately wasted as John shot him a smile, and his chest absolutely exploded with delight. 

Sherlock took a breath, and in a panic, made a mental sprint into the mind castle. 

There was a new room here, he realized, as he jogged through the main records room and into one of the many hallways. He approached carefully- the door was a pale, saturated, sunshine-gold, and the knob was made of copper. There was little on it except for a mirror hanging crookedly from a nail. Sherlock sniffed at it and adjusted it to be straight, then pushed the door open and walked in. There was a window at the far end, with blinding white light beaming in so he couldn't see the outside. There was absolutely minimal furniture, and it was all in the same pale gold as the door. The walls were absolutely covered in mirrors, to the point where the yellow wallpaper was just an outline. He shrank away from them- he didn't like seeing himself in his mind castle. Too surreal, even for him. He was not one for self reflection, figurative, or... otherwise. He shouldn't be so uncomfortable with his own mind. This room was intrusive on him. 

He was about to turn around when he noticed something on the white coffee table that held the center of the room- it was John's vest, and next to it a photograph of him- it was nailed to the table. 

If he tried to remove it from the room, it would be damaged, no matter how he did it. 

That was right. He had made this room almost involuntarily. He looked up to the walls, where countless duplicates of himself stared back, and he shrank. John wasn't allowed here. Nobody was, it was his. He wanted this room burned. 

His eyes opened to find himself back in 221B, John staring at him quizzically.

"Mind palace?" John asked. 

"Mind palace," Sherlock confirmed, voice slow and thoughtful. 

What had he done? Had he let John in? That was not supposed to happen. John was supposed to be the one falling in love, not him. Sherlock had taken a long time to adjust to the idea of a crush, but he could not be in love. That was a game too dangerous for even him. 

John handed him his tea, and he took it slowly, keeping it on his lap as he lit fire to that room. Sherlock's teeth clenched, and he pursed his lips bitterly. He could feel it burning. He let this happen to himself- no, in fact, he did this entirely on his own. God damn his useless, debilitating emotions, trying to cripple him around every turn. Sometimes, like now, they even succeeded. 

He took a sip of his tea and dared to look at John who was sheepishly avoiding eye contact. The room tried to rebuild itself, even in the middle of a fire, and Sherlock mentally doused it in gasoline. 

Mission failed. Abort project Seven Days. 


	5. Day Four

Whatever had happened yesterday, it had put Sherlock in a very foul mood. It was physically painful for John to watch him fall from a hot streak straight into a pit of quiet grouchiness. He was snappier than usual, and had pointedly dumped out the tea John had made for him. "Too weak" he had said with a spit. The most concerning part about it was that he wasn't even trying to cover it up. 

John sat in the armchair by the window as Sherlock sat there on the couch, hands folded in his signature position. He was in his mind palace again, but the way he sneered ever-so-subtly, John could tell something was wrong. Things never went wrong for Sherlock in his mind palace. Ever. 

That meant this was an inner struggle for Sherlock. He was used to dealing with problems he found in others. John couldn't imagine how he would deal with problems he made for himself. He wasn't very good at that. 

John stared at him for a long time before tearing his eyes away to look out the window to the street below. He was indulging himself just by looking at Sherlock's godly face, but he had to stop for the sake of not giving up anything. 

So what had made his flatemate so giddy this past week? 

What happened to sustain it?

How had it been cut out so abruptly? 

John took a slow draw of tea, thoughtful and analytic. He considered exactly what about Sherlock had been mood-boosted. 

Sherlock had been confident. His posture was like that of a king, his shoulders pressed back and his chin high. His lips were pursed and his eyes shone with a kind of delight that something John didn't know about was going his way. 

He had also been serene. Sherlock, by nature, was a chaotic man. He liked to make people uncomfortable. He liked to be right. And he liked to feel the rush of adrenaline. This week, he was still same old crazy Sherlock, but despite his inner delight for fuckery, he had been... relaxed. The problems he found were assembled less like a puzzle, and more like an artist, carefully detailing the eyes of a doll to create an end product. 

And above all, Sherlock had been excited. He was indulging more, and seemed so eager for something to happen. 

The secret. 

John's eyes lit up. The secret he had been keeping from John was elating. What kind of secret? 

He wished he could think about Sherlock without getting distracted by all of his overwhelming affection. Why did this come up just now? 

It was like hearing a sizzle, looking around, and then watching a firework explode in front of you. The prolonged eye contact. The unnecessary touches that made him want more. Even the blatantly alpha posture Sherlock had kept, and his smile. Oh, his smiles were different this week. They were...They were absolutely wolfish. 

Sherlock had been flirting with him, trying to slip it past him so he could yank the rug out from under him. 

John got up and left the room without a word, walking into the hall. When he got there, he leaned on the wall and let himself grin as wide as he wanted. He pulled his arms into himself and buried his face in his hands as his cheeks turned red. 

Crazy, gentle, defensive, stupid Sherlock was in love with him.

But now why was Sherlock so upset all of a sudden? Surely if he had been looking for it he would have seen that John returned the feeling? 


	6. Day Five

"What's for dinner?" Sherlock asked blandly, draped on the couch in a position that made John wonder if he was made of putty. 

"We could go out," John suggested eagerly, biting his lip at the prospect. It would give him the chance to talk. 

Sherlock eyed him, those probing blue eyes giving away nothing. "Or we could order in."

"I'm sick of being in the flat," John insisted, pulling out his wallet and waving it convincingly. "I'll pay."

Sherlock still looked like he wanted to say no, but that look slowly melted away, and he sighed. "Alright," he grunted and rolled off the couch, adjusting his coat before heading to the door. "Where to?"

"Galvin Bistrot," John said affirmatively, and followed him out the door. It was honestly only a few blocks away- there was no point in hailing a taxi.

Sherlock took up the lead, walking quickly and deliberately, avoiding eye contact, accidental touching, and even getting too close.

John took it as a personal insult, and by block three he was seriously doubting himself. He had been so sure Sherlock was flirting, but he was so distant now. Honestly, it was a stretch believing Sherlock was capable of feeling affection.

No. Sherlock definitely felt it. John knew him better than his flatemate would ever admit, and John knew for an absolute fact that Sherlock had been undeniably, undoubtedly, indisputably in love with him.

Okay, he wasn't quite that sure. But there was nothing Sherlock did without reason, and that included his subtle way of trying to flirt. Even if Sherlock wasn't in love, he was at least interested. 

Right? 

They made it to the restaurant without so much as a word. They were escorted to a free table, draped in a soft white table cloth and laid with menus, down-turned wine glasses, and rolled silverware. 

 

They got through nearly half of the meal before John sighed and set his fork down, finally having worked up his nerve.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't." 

John blinked at him in surprise.

"Don't do that. Don't tell me what you're thinking," Sherlock hissed, and stabbed a meatball on his plate violently. 

"I- Sherlock, I have to talk to you. We have to talk."

"No, we don't," he said defiantly, finally looking at John. His eyes shimmered with- with what, exactly? Anger? Sadness? Defiance? 

John scowled a little bit, irritated now. He had not done all of this, the planning, the mental pep-talks, just to get shushed by Sherlock Holmes's denial. 

"I love you," John spat before Sherlock could interrupt again. 

Sherlock's expression broke and he looked away. "And?" 

And? What did he mean, "and?" And what? 

"And I-... I know you've been behaving differently these past few days, and I thought- I- I really believed that you were..." John trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck as his heart slowly sank into his chest. He had been so sure. 

"You were mistaken," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth. 

John's mouth flatlined, and he felt the sudden need to be alone. 

"I see," he said, and pushed out his chair, adjusting his tie professionally. His veins were ice, but he would not throw a childish fit. Not over Sherlock. 

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't tell himself, "Not over Sherlock. He isn't worth it." 

Sherlock was beyond worth it. 

John stood up and squared his shoulders, flicking a credit card out of his pocket onto the table. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, and if he wasn't in public, he might have broken right then and there. What had he just thrown away? 

"Then thank you for your time." And with that, he walked out, his movements forced. 


	7. Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Smut.

John sighed deeply and rested his head against the door of the flat, standing out in the hallway. He had stopped by the pub on the way home, but he knew there was no drowning this, and had therefore only had one beer. His face was flushed, but he was kind of a lightweight. He had decided, a bit calmer but nonetheless devastated, that Sherlock was not going to do this to him. 

He knew for an absolute fact that Sherlock felt it too. He had to feel it. 

He had to. 

With a deep breath for courage, John opened the door and let himself in, a defensive curse on the tip of his tongue until he saw what state Sherlock was in. 

The taller man was curled up on the couch, idly rubbing his arm, which was absolutely swamped with nicotine patches. There were at least fifteen on his arm, and seven more on his neck. John gasped at the sight of him and rushed over, rolling him over. Sherlock's pupils dilated and his brow furrowed. He had been drinking too, but not much. john mercilessly ripped off six patches before Sherlock swatted him away. 

"No. Leave me alone," Sherlock commanded, rolling off the couch as John stumbled away from his swings. John scowled threateningly at him, but putting his hands up wasn't enough of a defense. John lunged at him, grappling with his arms, frantically snatching at the patches. 

"Sherlock," he gasped furiously, finally smacking his right arm into the ground and peeling another off. Sherlock, of all people, knew how deadly nicotine patches were. If John had stayed out for just two hours longer, there would be nothing left of Sherlock to fight. 

Sherlock's hand planted on his face, pushing him away as John tried to snag another one on his neck. He threw him off, and John hit the floor, letting out a cry- somewhat do to pain. Mostly due to aggravation. He didn't realize he was crying until he saw Sherlock wipe his hand off on his shirt from having touched John's face. 

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, catching himself on the end table from drunkenness. 

"Stop what?!" John yelled back, scrambling to his feet. "Loving you? You can't fucking make me realize how much you mean to me and then turn right around and do...  _this!_ " 

John waved a nicotine patch around frantically, his heart racing. The floor was littered with them, but there were still five on Sherlock's neck. 

"I don't want your love! Don't you understand, John? I can not be with you, or anyone else! I"m too..."   
He trailed off and palmed his face.

"Too what?" John challenged, flicking the patch to the ground. 

"I've fallen deeply, deeply in love with you, John Watson," Sherlock said softly, suddenly looking more broken than infuriated. "That was never meant to happen. You don't deserve to know me so deeply."

John's mouth gaped for a second. That was said as if knowing Sherlock were a burden. He took a step towards Sherlock, and then another, and Sherlock didn't try to fight him. He reached out and laid one hand gently on his collar bone. 

"Sherlock... there is nothing that could possibly convince me..." He laid the other hand on the nicotine patches on his neck, slowly pulling another off. Sherlock winced, but didn't struggle. "That you don't deserve my love."

Sherlock stayed silent, his expression dull as he gingerly lifted his hand, and lay it on top of John's, pressing it against his own neck. He closed his eyes and leaned into that warmth, all his movements delicate, like the moment was made of spiderwebs, and would fall away if he were too confident. 

John lay his head against Sherlock's chest and sighed, only to have his chin lifted again by Sherlock's index finger and thumb until he was looking straight into his eyes. 

"John," he murmured softly, seemingly drunk on John's eyes. He leaned in for a kiss, and John didn't stop him. 

His lips shifted gently, ever so soft and warm against John's. John closed his eyes in anticipation, and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist, palms running over the dip of his back. Sherlock's movement became slowly more instinctive until he introduced his tongue, gently prodding and asking for permission to enter, which John of course gave willingly. His tongue went down and Sherlock's went up, both of them sliding and stroking until John had to end it for the sake of a quick breath. Sherlock tasted ever-so-lightly like fire whisky, or cinnamon gum. 

Sherlock wasn't ready to stop. He didn't stop kissing, but moved away from John's mouth, experimentally down his neck until John's breath was coming out in sighs. 

"Sherlock, please," he laughed softly, fingers entwining themselves in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock disobeyed, and moved back up until he was right where John's ear met his neck, and John gasped it this time. "Sherlock-..."

Sherlock broke away from him and gave him a devious look, only to lean back in and land another nibble on John's neck. 

He laughed again, and peeled off the last nicotine patch. Sherlock had only been left alone for an hour- the nicotine was no worse than if Sherlock had been smoking the entire time he was gone. Just much better on the lungs. 

John shoved him away playfully, but kept a hold on his coat so he could lead him back towards the bedroom. Sherlock shed his coat as soon as John pulled him down on top of him, and then stopped just for a moment to look at John. His eyes sparkled with wonder.

John didn't have time to ask if something was wrong. The question was loaded, but Sherlock was already back to his affectionate nuzzling, migrating all over John's neck, plucking the buttons open on his shirt and practically trying to yank his undershirt clean off. He stopped for a moment to do just that. John complied, but didn't let him go back to smothering him until Sherlock's shirt was also off. Sherlock began to suck where he was once nuzzling, using his teeth to keep him in place for a few seconds so he could properly leave little red spots on John's neck. His lips left hot trails, and his mouth was like a taser, compelling John to roll his head back and breathe hard. 

His member had been hard for ages, but he hadn't really acknowledged it until now, when Sherlock moved his mouth downwards, chewing delicately just above John's groin. John's breathing picked up again, and his fingers clawed at the sheets, but he had other plans. 

"Sherlock," he panted. "I want you... to..." 

Sherlock hushed him in absolute perfect mimic of John's dream. it was deep, and quiet, and supposed to be soothing, but the sound only made John so much more eager. John watched as Sherlock reached into the nightstand, digging around for something suitable, and pulling out... lotion. 

Close enough. 

Sherlock knew what he wanted, and that was the important thing. He made taking John's pants off an absolute art, his hands gliding softly over John's hips as he worked his jeans down to the knee, and his own to mid-thigh. 

John whined meekly, his cock throbbing at the fact that this was actually happening. Sherlock Holmes loved him, and they were about to have sex. He spread his legs, his ass tightening with need. 

He felt the cold touch of lotion against his entrance, and smothered a gasp in his shoulder. Slowly, Sherlock inserted a lotion-slathered finger. John had to actually think in order to breathe correctly as he slid it in and out, testing carefully before repeating the procedure with an extra finger. John moved with him, knowing he should be patient, but oh god, he was so ready for this. 

Sherlock fit in four fingers before finally extracting, and John almost whimpered in excitement. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, biting his lips in anticipation. Again, Sherlock slathered his entrance with lotion, and then his cock. 

And then he put the tip in. John gasped helplessly, needing motion. Sherlock slid in slowly, carefully, trailing his lips over John's neck and collar bone. He began slow, but steady and strong, so that John rocked with every motion. He moaned quietly, finding it difficult to ask for more. 

Sherlock understood. 

"Say my name," he murmured indulgently, gripping John's cock in one lotion-coated hand. 

"Ah- Sherlock," John murmured as Sherlock began to jerk him off with each thrust, which grew a bit faster. John felt him all the way inside him, biting his lip and trying not to beg for Sherlock to go faster. He was so close to the prostate. 

And of course, Sherlock knew that. 

"Say it," he requested quietly. 

"Sherlock..." 

He shifted his angle just a little bit so that he was rubbing right up against John's prostate with each thrust and picked up the speed more, his hand moving smoothly up and down John's shaft. 

The shorter man had to bite his arm to keep from moaning with every thrust, instead managing to just whine. He was so full with Sherlock stretching him just enough, leaving a plum-purple hickey right beneath his jaw. It was ecstasy. 

Sherlock lost his self-control now, moving in and out of John at his best speed, still jerking off John in fairly equal time.

John felt himself grow more and more tense, everything hot and electric, every nerve in his body lit up with sparks.

"Sh-Sherlock-! Ah- S-mm!  _Shher-sherlock!_ " 

He released all over both himself and Sherlock, but tried his best to keep moving until Sherlock choked up, freezing with his member as far in as it would go and his face buried in John's shoulder. 

John felt himself fill up with Sherlock's cum, and gasped for breath, his eyes rolling back and his mind suddenly exhausted. Sherlock did him the favor of mopping the cum up with John's shirt, and then discarded both of their pants over the side of the bed. John pulled up his boxers and rolled over, his breathing starting to go back to normal as Sherlock scooted up behind him. 

His detective pulled John to his chest, and he sighed gratefully, adjusting himself so that they were properly spooning. 

They fell asleep like that, with John backed up to Sherlock's chest and Sherlock rubbing John's chest affectionately as he dozed off. 


	8. Day Seven

John smelled like sharp ginger ale. It was a mix between his cologne and natural body odor that created that smell, Sherlock noted as he buried his nose gently in the crease of his doctor's neck.

If there had been a heaven, Sherlock knew that this was it. Laying on his soft bed, surrounded with pillows, and most importantly, John pressed up to his chest.

There was nothing peaceful about how John slept. Even now, he was breaking out in cold sweats, and shivering. He wasn't an awful snorer, but his breath was fitful. He spent a lot of time grunting and tossing and turning last night until Sherlock would hold him tighter and shush him, quietly so that he barely woke up.

John had always been a fitful sleeper, ever since Sherlock first met him. Almost definitely a side affect of his PTSD.

Sherlock didn't deserve him. He began to shift to get out of bed to make tea when John reached for him, fingers curled stressfully, and yanked Sherlock back into him. Sherlock grunted in surprise.

"Don't leave," John whispered, beautiful eyes opened pleadingly. He looked so vulnerable, and he obviously grit his teeth to avoid the shame that he was asking for help. Sherlock's heart stopped beating for a half a second. He stopped and he shuffled back under the covers in defeat, pulling John's head to his chest to let him hear Sherlock's heartbeat.

"Of course not," Sherlock murmured, and his... _Boyfriend? Lover?_ His lover sighed into him, leaving a kiss right in the middle of his chest.

Sherlock smirked.

The woman- _the_ Woman had been his first experience in love, and what exciting games she had played. Of course, he had spent many nights wondering about her. Where she was. That knowing smile. That clever, yet overly-confident way she would look at him. Yes, Irene, The Dominatrix, had been fire. But, like fire, she had just as well gone out. She was across the world right now, probably exploiting some poor stupid government executive for all of his value.

She knew what many men liked, and though what she and Sherlock had was absolutely chemical, it was built on water, and never built to last. She and Sherlock had had very different paths to follow.

John was not Irene. He was not manipulative, or crafty, or mysterious. He was not new, or exciting, or seductive.

But John was his. John was beautiful and brave and unpredictable. He was gentle, but strong. Warm, but professional. Helpful, but independent. And above all, John was his. There was absolutely no question as to whether or not John loved him. Sherlock did love a challenge, but he also loved his doctor. What would a deduction be without John there to tell him how amazing he was for pointing out the obvious, no matter how many times he did it? The thought made him huff in laughter.

Sherlock Holmes lived in a world of mediocrity. John was not Moriarty. He was not Irene or any variant of an evil genius. But John was far, far above mediocre. John was not John Watson, the oblivious blogger, but John H. Watson, medical extraordinaire, psychological anomaly, faithful friend, and the simplest, kindest man anyone has ever had reason to fear. He was the yang to Sherlock's ying, his conscience, his social representative, the anchor that held him down, even when there were water spouts and rogue waves and whirlpools and lightning.

If Irene had been ecstasy, John was nicotine. And he probably deserved some breakfast, especially after the "rough" night he'd had.

Sherlock was so hostile towards his own emotions, but he had failed to rid himself of them, so he would be... learning to live with them. He indulged himself a sweet kiss on the side of John's neck and stroked his hand before shuffling out of bed so as not to let in the cold air.

John grunted in disapproval, but let him go, and he walked toward the kitchen, vents blowing cool drafts on every last inch of skin.

Right. He hadn't put his clothes back on last night, had he? Just as well. The front door was locked and it wasn't as if John had any real reason to be uncomfortable seeing him naked. Regardless, he plucked a blanket off the armchair to wrap around his waist to keep the chill out.

~

John woke up again to the smell of smoke and the sound of pots clanging. He jerked awake and threw himself out of bed despite the ache in his hips, jogging to the kitchen in his boxers to find Sherlock wearing a throw blanket kilt. He was leaned casually against the counter, watching nonchalantly as white foam poured out of the fire extinguisher in his hand and onto the toaster.

John stood in the hallway, mouth agape when the realization dawned on him, and he dragged the palm of his hand over his face.

"The toaster's broken," Sherlock pointed out helpfully, and John pursed his lips, watching as he put the fire extinguisher down.

"Yes. Good job." John sighed in exasperation at the sight of the poor, poor toaster, then shook his head and took a few steps towards his boyfriend. The move backed Sherlock up to the counter, but if he didn't want to be here, he wouldn't be letting it happen. He looked away like he was afraid of the feeling of John's lips against him, but John was relentless. He rested a chaste kiss on the taller man's collar bone, since he wouldn't lower his head to kiss him on the lips. 

"Go sit down," John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist before sending him to the couch. Sherlock lifted John's mouth to his gently and kissed him softly, then obeyed. 

Sherlock looked back at him from his seat, looking positively enchanted to have somebody look at him the way John was, and John smiled at him. 

"I'll make breakfast."


End file.
